


Our Last Moments, Together

by CelestialVoid



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Bones (TV Series), Buried Alive, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Hurt Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Hurt/Comfort, Injured Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Kidnapped Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Kidnapped Stiles Stilinski, Kidnapping, M/M, One Shot, Short One Shot, scene stealer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 12:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18073043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: Stiles and Scott have been taken by the Grave Digger and buried underground. The team has eight hours to find them.





	Our Last Moments, Together

**Author's Note:**

> Based on BONES season 2 episode 9.
> 
> Is it an FBI AU? I don't know. You can read it as an FBI AU or as a canon-ish AU.

Stiles let out a weak groan as he blinked his eyes open, his heat pounding and the air hot as he drew in shallow breaths. His eyes were heavy as he blinked them open, the muffled sound of a radio reaching his ears. He could see the green glow of the car radio, his surroundings lit by the dull light of the overhead light.

He pushed himself upright, wincing at the searing pain that tore through his body. His hand shook as he lifted it to the back of his neck, feeling the tender, bruised skin and the swollen welt.

He turned off the radio and fell back against his seat, bursts of light filling his darkness as he tried to focus, tried to remember what had happened. He was investigating a case: two boys – Ethan and Aiden Steiner – were buried alive in a silo, held at ransom but their father had been too late.

There was a quiet groan from the back seat.

Stiles wheeled around, his eyes focused on the figure slumped in the back seat.

“Scott?” he gasped. He pushed himself out of his seat and climbed in between the front seats, looking at his friend. His heart lurched into his throat when he saw Scott’s leg; his shin had been torn open, blood soaking the leg of his pants. The metallic stench was sickening. “Scott, what happened to your leg?”

Scott let out another groan. He blinked his hazy eyes open, looking around. “Where—where are we?”

“We’re buried alive,” Stiles answered. “I think he got us.”

“Who?” Scott asked.

“The Grave Digger.”

 

 

Derek pressed play on the voice message, the distorted voice ringing through the speaker.

 _“Stiles Stilinski and Scott McCall have been buried alive. Wire transfer eight million dollars to the following Grand Cayman account or they will suffocate to death. Upon receiving the wire transfer I will provide you with Stilinski and McCall’s G.P.S. coordinates. You have eight hours. This will be my last communication._ ”

“He learnt from the Steiner boys,” Derek said, his voice tense. “He got two of them. He cut the deadline in half.”

He glanced over to where Isaac set up his tablet, a timer set – eight hours from when Derek had gotten the message – and ticking down.

“But why is he demanding so much?” Lydia asked. “He’s always been so understanding about how much the person he’s demanding the money from can raise in the time given.”

“I don’t know,” Derek said. “All I know is Stiles was on his way to the library before heading home.”

“Scott went after him to tell him something,” Allison added.

“So what do we do?” Isaac asked.

“We keep investigating the case,” Derek answered. He turned to Isaac. “I need you to find out what it was Scott wanted to tell Stiles. Lydia, check the evidence again, see if there’s anything we might have overlooked.”

“What do I do?” Allison asked.

“Call Melissa,” Derek said. “Let her know what’s going on. I’ll call Stiles’ dad.”

 

 

“Where are we?” Scott asked again, his unfocused eyes taking in their surroundings.

“Buried,” Stiles repeated. “Underground.”

“I don’t remember how I got here,” Scott said.

“I think the Grave Digger ran you down when you tried to stop him from taking ma and then pumped you full of drugs to ruin your short-term memory,” Stiles said.

“Same as Ethan Steiner.”

Stiles nodded.

Scott looked around at the interior of the car. “How long have we been down here?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles admitted. “Two hours, I think.”

“So let’s say this vehicle has twenty percent oxygen, two people…” Scott shook his head. “My brain’s not working.” He dragged his hand down his face. “If we started with twelve hours of air, we’ll be unconscious in ten,” he said. “After that, if no one pays the ransom, we’re…”

“Dead,” Stiles finished. “We’re going to be fine.”

Stiles pushed himself back into the front seat, grabbing his bag from the foot hole and emptying it on the passenger’s seat. He emptied his pockets and began to sort through what they had.

“Two bottles of water, a mini first-aid kit, ibuprofen, a digital camera with a backup battery, a book, some pens, and a cell phone with no battery,” he listed.

“Two,” Scott corrected, digging his phone out of his back pocket and passing it to Stiles.

“Two cell phones with no battery,” Stiles said, setting the phone down on the seat.

“And this.” Scott pulled a small vial out of his pocket.

Stiles cocked an eyebrow. “Perfume?”

“For Allison,” he explained. “Nothing says ‘I love you’ like perfume, right?”

Scott flinched, wincing.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asked.

“My leg,” Scott wheezed, tears pricking his eyes.

Stiles shuffled back between the seats, helping Scott lift his foot onto the centre console.

“I think you might have compartment syndrome,” Stiles said, studying Scott’s leg.

“Is it terminal?” Scott asked. “I mean, within the next few hours?”

“No,” Stiles answered. “But it is going to get painful.”

“More painful than now?”

Stiles nodded. “Slip-into-shock-and-die painful.”

“And there’s nothing we can do about it?” Scott asked, the dull light casting shadows across his worried face.

“There is,” Stiles said. “But I’m not a doctor, Scott.”

“I know, but if anyone can do it, Stiles, it’s you.”

“It’s fifty-fifty, Scotty,” Stiles said. “If I do this, then I could send you into shock and kill you sooner.”

“The upside? Me not breathing doubles your survival time,” Scott said reassuringly.

Stiles shook his head. “I’m not interested in surviving that way.” He let out a measured breath. “Okay, fine. I’ll do it.”

“Can you walk me through what you’re going to do?” Scott asked. “So I can ready myself for it.”

“I’m going to make a long incision in the fascia and squeeze the blood out to release the pressure in your leg,” Stiles explained.

“How long is a ‘long incision’?” Scott asked. “Actually, don’t tell me.”

Stiles grabbed the book from the passenger’s seat and a pen, passing them back to Scott.

He didn’t have to be told what to do, he took the pen and tore a page from the book, hastily scribbling a note before folding it and slipping it into his pocket.

Stiles opened the mini med kit, finding bandages and gauze. He grabbed another pen, using his phone to smash the plastic to a sharp point. He rolled up Scott’s pant leg and poured some water over Scott’s leg, clearing away some of the dry blood.

 “Wait,” Stiles carefully dug into Scott’s wound, pulling out a sliver of blood soaked, coloured aluminium.

“What’s that?” Scott asked.

“Evidence of what happened to you,” Stiles said, grabbing the book and setting it between the pages.

He shrugged off his jacket and rolled it up, sliding it beneath Scott’s ankle. He turned back to Scott.

“Ready?” he asked.

Scott pulled up his shirt, bunching it in his mouth and biting down into the fabric. He wound his arms around the arm rest and the cushioning of the back seat, digging his fingers in.

“It’ll be best if I do this fast and without empathy,” Stiles said. “And don’t try to fight passing out.”

Scott nodded.

Stiles let out a measured breath. He pressed the jagged edge of the broken pen against Scott’s leg, pushing down until it broke the skin.

Scott cried out, his screams muffled by the shirt in his mouth. Tears streamed down his face as Stiles tore open his leg, blood streaming from the wound. His cries died out as his eyes fluttered shut and his body fell limp against the car door.

 

 

The blaring horn woke him with a start. He bolted upright with a gasp, wincing as throbbing pain flooded his head.

“Shit,” Stiles gasped, clutching a hand to his chest. He let out a heavy sigh. “Thank God, I didn’t kill you.”

Scott offered him a weak, reassuring smile. “How long was I unconscious?”

“A while,” Stiles answered. “How’s your leg?”

“Better.” His brow furrowed with confusion as he looked over the shoulder of the driver’s seat at Stiles. “What are you doing?”

“Hot-wiring the phone to the horn to give it enough of a charge that we can send a message,” Stiles explained.

“From underground?”

“We get radio reception,” Stiles pointed out, nodding towards the car radio. “Direct current of the 12-volt will burn out the circuits in a 4.2-volt cell phone in a microsecond unless I jury-rig a resistor. That might buy us just enough time to send a single burst transmission. Derek or my dad can trace it to the nearest cell phone relay tower.”

“Smart,” Scott said. “Where did you learn this stuff?”

“Parrish,” Stiles answered. He glanced over his shoulder with a panicked expression. “Please don’t tell my dad.”

Scott let out a quiet laugh. “Your secret’s safe with me.” He watched Stiles for a moment. “And what message shall we send, ‘Goodbye’? ‘Nice knowing you’?”

“What are we surrounded by?” Stiles asked, ignoring his question.

“Pain, despair, and a subsoil accumulation of agglutinate aridisols.,” Scott answered.

Stiles looked over his shoulder, levelling his gaze on Scott.

“Ash,” Scott reiterated. He grabbed a handful of the dirt that was scattered across the back seat and sniffed at it. “Hits of nitrogen and sulfur.”

“So, where are we?” Stiles prompted, turning his attention back to wiring the phone.

“Coal country,” Scott answered. “Virginia.”

“We need more than that,” Stiles said.

“Pass me the laser pen” Scott said.

Stiles reached over to the seat beside him and passed it back to Scott.

“We need benzophenone.”

“What?”

“Benzophenone,” Scott repeated. “It’s in soaps, plastic packaging, sunscreen.”

“We don’t have any sunscreen,” Stiles replied.

“The perfume,” Scott said, pointing to the vial on the passenger’s seat. “And the camera.”

Stiles passed them both back.

Scott used his teeth to pry open the perfume’s lid, pouring it into the handful of dirt he had cupped in his hand.

“It smells nice,” Stiles said.

Scott set the empty vial down and picked up the camera, switching it on. The camera whirred, the flash blinding as he took a photo of the handful of dirt. He looked at the photo displayed on the digital screen, straightening with excitement as he said, “I know where we are.”

“How fast’s your texting?” Stiles asked.

“Lightning quick,” Scott answered.

Stiles passed him back the hot-wired phone. “You have about four seconds to enter a message and hit speed dial. You ready?” Stiles asked, holding his palm against the worn leather of the car horn, waiting.

Scott drew in a deep breath, his thumbs over they keypad. “Ready.”

“Three, two, one.” Stiles slammed his hand down on the horn.

The baring sound filled the small space as Scott rapidly typed the message. The phone sparked, electricity crackling as the rancid smell of smoke burnt their nostrils.

Scott yelped as the current shocked his hands and the screen went black.

Stiles took his hand off the horn, the two of them staring at the dead phone. “Did… Did it send?” he asked.

“I think so,” Scott answered, uncertain.

 

 

“Eight million?” John repeated, stunned. Fear and helplessness filled him. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

“I do,” Derek confessed. “My family has bonds and property. If we can’t find them in time, I’ll pay.”

“I can’t ask that of you,” John said.

“Stiles is my friend,” Derek said. “I want him back too.”

John opened his mouth to say something when Derek’s phone chimed.

He fished it out of his pocket. His heart skipped a beat when he read the name.

“It’s Stiles,” he called out, quickly writing out the message on the nearby whiteboard for everyone to see.

**6   7   16     M1.4**

“Does it mean anything to anyone?”

They shook their heads.

“They’re getting low on oxygen,” Lydia said. “Hypoxia leads to confusion.”

“It’s Stiles,” Derek interrupted, his voice firm. “It means _something_.”

“It’s not a G.P.S. location,” John said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Isaac said quietly.

“IT does matter,” Derek snapped.

The boy shook his head, pointing at the timer.

0.00.03

0.00.02

0.00.01

0.00.00

“We’re out of time,” Isaac rasped.

“No,” Derek growled. “We can’t give up.”

“Derek—" Lydia said quietly.

“This is Stiles and Scott we’re talking about. They can be idiots a lot of the time, but they worked out how to do this—” He gestured at the code on the whiteboard. “You think they didn’t they somehow found a way to extend their air supply? I’m not giving up until we find them.”

“Who was it meant to get to?” Allison asked, her eyes focused on the code.

“Stiles’ phone to mine,” Derek answered. “So, it was meant for me?”

“But it means nothing to you?” Allison asked.

Derek shook his head.

“What if it wasn’t Stiles texting?” Isaac asked.

“It was Scott,” John offered.

“So, it’s meant for Allison,” Lydia said.

“But it’s numbers,” Allison said. “So, it’s meant for Lydia.”

“Scott would have written poetry for Allison.”

Lydia stared at the code, her jade eyes misted with thought. “It’s not math,” she said. “Six, seven, sixteen: carbon, nitrogen, and sulfur on the periodic table. They’re buried in coal-rich soil.”

“Keep going,” Derek encouraged.

“The mineral components in coal are all the same. It’s the organic components that provide a unique fingerprint. They’re called macerals. They fluoresce at different levels. A reflectance of 1.4 is quite rare, suggesting a high concentration of inertinite.”

“Tell me you know what that means,” Derek pleaded.

Lydia’s eyes lit up. “I know where they are.”

 

 

Stiles slumped against his seat, skin soaked with sweat. His lips trembled, hot air dancing across his lips. His eyes were growing heavy and his vision as blurring. He felt lethargic, his body aching as he pulled his shirt up and wiped the sweat and dirt away from his face.

He grabbed the broken pen he had used to operate on Scott and climbed into the back seat.

“What are you doing?” Scott asked, watching Stiles pull down the flap in the centre seat that opened up into the boot.

“Hoping for a miracle,” Stiles whispered as he reached into the darkness. “Don’t talk. Save your breath.”

His hands patted the old carpet until his fingers brushed up against something solid. ‘Thank God’, he mouthed as he reached further into the boot and pulled the spare tyre forward. He grabbed the broken pen and slammed it into the side of the tyre, grunting as he strained to pierce the thick rubber.

There was a quiet hiss.

Stiles pulled the pen out, listening to the air that rushed out of the punctured tyre.

Stiles and Scott both leaned towards it, drawing in breaths as relief filled their body.

“That’s not going to last us,” Scott rasped. “Why prolong the inevitable?”

“Derek will find us,” Stiles whispered.

“You have a lot of faith in him,” Scott said.

“Not faith,” Stiles replied. “I’ve seen what he can do. I know he’ll find us.”

“We’re buried underground, running out of air, we have no idea if our message got out there, let along if anyone understood it; what you have is faith,” Scott said.

Stiles couldn’t help but smile a bit.

Scott nodded to the punctured spare tyre. “How long will that ask?”

“Long enough for me to try one last thing,” Stiles said. “But it’ll kill us.”

“What is it?” Scott asked.

“The air bags.”

“They aren’t actually full of air,” Scott pointed out.

“I know. I’m going to use them to blow our way out of here,” Stiles said. He climbed back into the front seat.

“Using the explosives from the air bags? That could defiantly kill us.”

“So will doing nothing,” Stiles pointed out.

 

 

“I’m scared to ask where you learnt this,” Scott said.

“Parrish,” Stiles answered. “He was int eh bomb squad before he got a transfer.”

“So, what’s going to happen?” Scott asked hesitantly.

“I’m not really an explosives expert but the dash might shape the charge enough to blow out the windshield,” Stiles answered. “If we’re less that four feet below the surface, the charge could blow is to freedom.”

“And if we’re buried more than four feet beneath the surface?” Scott asked.

Stiles hesitated for a second before answering, “Then the concussion will turn out brains to jelly.”

Stiles tore a page out of the novel before passing it back to Scott again. They were both silent as they wrote their letters, folding them up and shoving them into their pockets.

“Try and get as far away from the explosion as possible,” Stiles said, watching in the rear-view mirror as Scott carefuly moved his leg, laying himself out across the back seat. Stiles set the explosive on the windscreen.

“Care to join me?” Scott said, jokingly holding his hand out to Stiles.

Stiles chuckled as he climbed into the back seat again. He reached into the front seat and picked up the wires.

“So, this is it?” Scott whispered.

Stiles looked down at the wires in his hands, tears welling in his eyes. “This is it.”

“You should get in the boot,” Scott said, taking the wires from Stiles’ trembling hands. “You’ll be safer in there.”

Stiles shook his head. He looked at Scott, tears trailing sown his cheeks. “Scott, you’re my brother. So, if you’re going to do this…” he shuffled closer, setting his hand on Scott’s. “…you’re going to have to take me with you.”

Scott fought back tears as Stiles pulled him closer, hugging his friend one last times.

Scott detonated the charge.

The last thing he remembers is the sound of muffled soft rock on the radio before the thundering bang tore through him, agony flooding his head. There was a deafening rumble as dirt flooded through the broken windscreen, the weight bearing down on them.

Stiles fought the instinct to fight back, trying his best to hold his breath as the darkness crashed over him.

It felt as if his lungs were consumed by a raging inferno, the jagged claws of firebirds tearing at the tissue as they tried to dig their way out of his chest. His pulse thundered in his ears, deafening. He tried to move his body, but it was no use; the weight bearing down on him was too much.

His body grew weak, his lips trembling as he fought to hold onto his breath.

Finally, he let go.

He felt the tension fade away as the darkness consumed him.

 

 

“ _Stiles_ …”

The voice seemed to drift about in the nothingness. The deep, husky voice seemed so familiar, so soothing.

“ _Stiles, open your eyes_. _Please, open your eyes_.”

Stiles let out a weak groan, coughing up the dust and ash that filled his lungs. Strong arms held up upright as he slowly blinked his eyes open to the glaring sunlight.

Slowly, his vison came into focus, looking up at the man that held him.

He had a square jaw that was darkened by stubble and wore an old black leather jacket that was covered in dust. He ran his hand through his thick, dark hair, trying to tame the mess that was tousled by the wind. His fingers raked his hair away from his face, exposing his pale green eyes.

Derek.

Stiles let a sigh of relief fall past his lips.

“Scott,” he muttered, straining to look around.

Allison and Isaac were nearby, holding onto Scott he coughed up lungfuls of dust.

“He’s okay,” Derek reassured him. “Paramedics are right behind us.”

“He needs a hospital,” Stiles rasped.

“And so do you,” Derek replied.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said dismissively.

“You’re going to hospital,” Derek said with finality.

Stiles reluctantly submitted, letting his body weaken in Derek’s arms. He looked across the dusty ground at Scott.

He was alive.

They’d made it out alive.

 

 

Stiles jumped at the sound of someone clearing their throat behind him. He spun around to see Derek standing a few feet away with his hands buried in his pockets and an unamused expression on his face.

“I went to see you in the hospital, they said you discharged yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Stiles lied.

“No, you’re not,” Derek said.

“The doctors pumped me full of painkillers and antibiotics. I’m fine,” Stiles said. “I need to get back to work.”

“You need to rest,” Derek argued.”

“This guy’s still out there, Derek. He’s not going to stop,” Stiles snapped, turning to glare at Derek.

“And we’ll stop him,” the man promised. “We’ll start tomorrow. All of us.”

Stiles turned away from him, letting his shoulders sag as he let out a defeated sigh. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.

“I can’t… I can’t sleep,” he admitted.

Derek took a step closer. “I thought they gave you something for that?”

“No, I mean, every time I close my eyes I feel like I’m back in that car, except…”

“Except what?” Derek asked.

“Except this time, you’re not coming; this time you don’t find me in time,” he said. He couldn’t bring himself to look Derek in the eye, his mind racing as he began to ramble, “You know, when you’re drowning, you don’t actually inhale until right before you black out. It’s called voluntary apnoea. It’s like no matter how much you’re freaking out, the instinct to not let any water in is so strong that you won’t open your mouth until you feel like your head’s exploding. Then, when you finally do let it in, that’s when it stops hurting. It’s not scary anymore. It’s actually kind of peaceful.”

“Hey,” Derek whispered, crouching beside Stiles and levelling his gaze with his. “I’ll always find you,” he promised.

Stiles smiled weakly.

“Come home with me,” Derek said softly.

Stiles blinked in shock. “What?”

“You can sleep at my place tonight,” Derek said. “That way, when you open your eyes, I’ll be there.”

“Really?” Stiles asked.

A sweet smile lifted Derek’s lips. “Really.”

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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